Chapter Text
The hunt, the chase, the rush of adrenaline which came from taking a life in the most violent of ways, that was something which spurred Granthem Du’Met on and made him feel alive in a way being a federal agent never had. Each victim had died knowing there wasn’t a single thing they could do to save themselves; he enjoyed that, the total hopelessness. Being able to inflict that on a person was part of the reason he’d come to so admire H. H. Holmes; the man hadn’t just killed people, he’d done so in a systematic, elegant and artful manner which, even those appalled by true crime had to accept, was impressive. H. H. Holmes had revolutionized murder into streamlined, well-planned fine art that Du’Met respected. His mentor’s kills had been ingenious as well, carefully thought out to the point targets just strolled in through the front door. Du’Met had taken the work of Holmes and Sherman to heart and ultimately had become a killer that surpassed the pair of them; a few more and his kill count would surpass Holmes too. Du’Met’s murders had more virtuosity than any he’d seen in his time with the FBI.
The crew behind The Architects of Murder documentaries never displayed that hopelessness though; they’d taken all his hard work and repudiated at every damn turn with frustrating efficiency. In the beginning it had embittered Du’Met, but quickly he’d come to the realization that this could be the single best hunt he’d ever had; just like that the adrenaline had flooded his blood again.
Originally Charlie hadn’t been all that interesting to Du’Met; he’d done his research and honestly didn’t expect much from a man so narcissistic the word ‘borderline’ hardly applied any longer. The serial killer had just expected Charlie to panic and alienate himself from his team, then quickly fall prey to the furnace. In all honesty, Du’Met had been rather looking forward to watching him burn. Yet, when he’d lured the director and Jamie to his groundskeeper animatronic, Charlie had stood his ground instead of backing off the pressure plate. Bravery; the blond had shown Du’Met a level of bravery he’d not thought Charlie Lonnit capable of. That was the moment Charlie had gone from just another victim to someone actually interesting and worthy of the masked man’s attention; that didn’t happen very often. Then the Englishman had really exceeded Du’Met’s expectations by surviving his furnace trap, and, just like that, Charlie had turned from interesting to fascinating in the killer’s mind; suddenly Du’Met had become keenly aware that the younger man may just have had some genuine potential.
As the evening went on, Du’Met had found himself paying significantly more attention to the blond director than his other unlucky guests. He should have kept his attention firmly on the game of life and death, but Charlie just kept pulling his attention away, so much so that Du’Met had started to think of Charlie as a distraction since he’d failed to kill off any of the others. No, he couldn’t just watch Charlie Lonnit forever, so he’d firmly turned his murderous intent to the rest of the crew. He’d turned the tables on Jamie, Erin and Kate when they’d tried to cage him by luring Jamie and Kate into the glass wall trap. They shouldn’t have found an out from that but oh, Jamie had proven herself surprisingly capable with that screwdriver of hers; if Du’Met hadn’t been so impressed he’d have slammed his latex-coated fist into the concrete walls of his control room.
The roof, the woods, they’d just kept slipping through his fingers every time Du’Met thought he’d gotten them pinned as if there was some kind of guardian angel watching over each of them. Either he’d misjudged the crew and their personalities or they were just unimaginably lucky; he didn’t like the idea of either of those options. Regardless, he had an ax now and the drive to bury it in somebody’s head and watch crimson pour.
Meanwhile Charlie had managed to escape the hotel or horrors, stumbled across Mark and headed to the lighthouse with him. That was where they’d found Erin safe and sound, which had been a bit of a surprise. After everything they’d been through Charlie had expected Erin to be dead, she was too innocent and naïve to have survived, or at least that was what he’d assumed. ‘Well done for still being alive, Erin’ muttered Charlie’s mind. However, his pleasure at finding her alive had died a rapid death when she’d started spouting shit about him being in on Du’Met’s murder plan. She honestly thought he’d help the Holmes-obsessed serial killer? Was she insane? Why would he ever take part in something so evil?
Mark’s betrayal had hurt more than the force they’d used to tie Charlie to that goddamn fence. Anger bubbled deep within the director’s blood along side fear and a multitude of other negative emotions. He’d not survived the fiery pits of hell, a man-sized garbage disposal and a concussion just to be tied to a fucking fence by his own people and left for dead.
Charlie watched as Erin and Mark slipped through a window and into the lighthouse apparently sure leaving their employer to die was the correct decision. Oh when they got off the damn island he’d fire the whole ungrateful lot of them! He screamed and shouted a litany of swear words out into the rainy night; logically he knew keeping quiet would have been significantly safer but his desperation for his team to come back and free him kept Charlie screaming.
Suddenly a twig snapped and Charlie’s mouth clamped closed; a shiver shuddered down his spine and not just because of the bitterness the weather had wrought. His eyes slipped shut because he just knew it was Du’Met, he could feel the older man looming with murderous intent. Right behind him, the murderer was right behind him. Hair stood up on the back of Charlie’s neck and his eyes squeezed closed even more tightly for a moment; maybe if he just wished hard enough Du’Met would go away and Charlie would wake up from this nightmare on his desk with a crick in his neck as usual. The taller man was behind him, Charlie could hear him breathing and feel his presence; there’d be no waking up at his desk for Charlie.
“Please. Please don’t do this.” He begged instinctively as Du’Met came into view ax in hand. “Oh God, please don’t do – please don’t do this!” The ax glinted in the moonlight like it’s own threat. “Don’t kill me.”
Charlie knew he was all tied up and ripe for the gutting, and that knowledge alone had bile rise up Charlie’s throat. Again the moonlight glinted off the ax which somehow managed to be more frightening than when Du’Met had pressed that knife to his nostril; a nostril which still stung where the scab had started to form. The killer’s head tilted, no doubt internally congratulating himself on finding a hog-tied victim just waiting, and Charlie had already used his get out of jail free card to escape the furnace.
Du’Met threw the ax down then with force enough to drive the blade into the soil and cut many a blade of wet grass in twain. Charlie shivered and pleaded, begged to go on living, but those pleas fell on deaf ears. The knife that had already drawn Charlie’s blood once that evening came out again, and had Charlie not been so totally terrified he’d have taken note of how surprisingly clean the blade was.
“Please-” Charlie tried again. “You don’t have to do this. We could all just leave – we’ll never tell anybody.”
The masked man would kill him for sure simply because he was an easy kill. He’d not ended a life all night and it had started to grate on Du’Met; his fingers itched for it.
Natural desperation had the director try to shuffle away but his bonds kept him firmly in place; hog-tied had been a disturbingly accurate description. Panic had set in. Panic had taken over. Panic was all Charlie had any longer. He begged, implored and pleaded with a man who’d murdered over a hundred people, a man who had no desire other than to kill the documentary crew.
“Just wait- just stop! Don’t do this, Mister Du’Met. Please don’t do this!” Suddenly the threatening blade was against his throat in violent warning. Charlie gulped and the knife took the chance to nick his stubbled throat. “Okay. I’m- please don’t do this. I’m sorry – I’ll be good. I’m sorry, Mister Du’Met. Please, I’ll do anything, Sir.”
Well that was a word which gave Granthem Du’Met pause; sir really wasn’t something he’d anticipated from Charlie, but Charlie had been a surprise all evening. He raised an eyebrow behind his one-of-a-kind mask as he pondered just what exactly Charlie deemed to be ‘anything’. However, it was just the pathetic pleading of a desperate sack of meat at the end of the day, so he just continued to glide the sharpened metal over his victim’s body; down the Englishman’s throat to his chest so he could cut the vest and shirt open. The begging started right back up again, but after so many years of killing, Du’Met filtered it into background noise.
“Please don’t do this! You don’t have to. Please just – please, Sir.”
As soon as Du’Met had Charlie’s shirt open he had to pause just to take in the sight of his surprisingly toned body. Very well maintained for a forty-nine-year-old man who’d smoked almost his entire life. Turned out the director didn’t just have a submissive streak but was really rather handsome. A toned chest with hardly a spattering of hair, broad shoulders and supple skin. Yes, very handsome.
Latex-coated fingers pushed his mask up ever so slightly to expose his mouth a little more. At the beginning of his emergence as a serial killer and his Holmes persona, Du’Met had grown the moustache but it honestly hadn’t suited his face and frankly he’d found it annoying so he’d begrudgingly returned to being clean-shaven.
Cold night air attacked Charlie’s exposed chest but his bound wrists prevented him curling in on himself. His naked chest rose and fell rapidly as that knife practically caressed one of his nipples.
“Don’t kill me.” Charlie tried yet again. “I don’t want to die! I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
In an instant Du’Met plastered himself up against Charlie’s chest, an act that crushed Charlie’s tied hands into the chain link fence with such force that he winced. Nowhere to go, the director had literally nowhere to go. Some traitorous part of Charlie’s brain, a quiet part at the very back, noted Du’Met’s height, strength and pure dominance was surprisingly appealing. Charlie should have been ashamed of that, that he liked having such a tall and strong man pressed up against him. Then, like they weren’t killer and victim, Du’Met kissed the blond. A sudden crash of lips which not only took the younger man by surprise but slammed the back of Charlie’s head into the fence. He tried to turn his head away as the Holmes mask dug into his cheeks, but Charlie again felt shame at the knowledge that his murderer was a good kisser. It had been a very long time for Charlie; ‘married to the job’, that was his excuse but in reality he’d never been good at relationships and a religious, overbearing mother had made coming to terms with being bisexual hard for Charlie. He hated it, but a combination of fear and lust had him giving in to the kiss soon enough; it felt nice and his traitorous body wanted it. Some part of him attempted to blame it all on the quantity of adrenaline coursing through his blood and his desperation for a fucking cigarette.
When the kiss finally ended, Charlie just stared at Du’Met’s unwavering eyes and gulped. The knife returned to Charlie’s line of sight and he was certain the serial killer could feel his horror-stricken heartbeat in his own chest. ‘This is it’ said Charlie’s mind. Du’Met had finished playing around and wanted to finally make a kill. Hyperventilating lungs sucked in desperate gulps of air as his brain tried to prepare itself for a knife plunging into his body. With Du’Met’s mask askew, Charlie couldn’t miss the taller man’s smirk; he looked expectant.
“Don’t – please don’t kill me. I will, I’ll do anything, sir.”
The murderer’s head tilted to one side, his mask eerily lit by moonlight, and slowly traced the word ‘anything’ over Charlie’s exposed chest but thankfully didn’t cut into the flesh there. It took a moment for his panicked mind to put the letters together, but once he had Charlie understood the silent question and nodded.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll- I’ll do anything you want, Mister Du’Met. I- I promise.”
Almost lovingly Du’Met carded his knife-less hand through Charlie’s hair with a gentle caress. By this stage Charlie didn’t know what to think; so many mixed signals flew about. One moment he’d thought death was imminent, the next he’d been fighting off pleasure.
“I-”
Du’Met cut the blond man off with a hand firmly over his mouth. Then, with a practised hand, he sheathed his knife. Those dark eyes hidden under his mask, the ones that twinkled with violence, trailed down to Charlie’s crotch; anticipation shuddered through him. Those gloved hands worked quickly to unzip Charlie’s pants and free his cock which grew increasingly interested. Charlie opened his mouth to question but then he took Charlie’s length in hand and gave him a firm stroke; Charlie gasped.
“No. No, this is wrong, you need to stop.” A moan slipped from his lips. “Please don’t.”
He tried to resist the pleasure, but it really had been so very long, and Charlie had been pushed through so many emotions he didn’t know what to feel any longer. The latex felt strange but Du’Met was still pressed flush against him and forcing his tied hands into the base of his back; just the right amount of pain. Fingers threaded back through Charlie’s graying blond hair and yanked his head backward exposing his neck to the darkness of night.
He’d said no, but Charlie hadn’t really meant no, he longed for satisfaction and Du’Met was the only one to provide it. Besides, if this was the ‘anything’ the serial killer wanted from him then Charlie was happy to let him have it. Who knew, maybe the rest of the crew could use the time wisely and escape, something good would come of his shame that way at least. At least that were some of the things Charlie would tell himself later when the humiliation set in.
Firm strokes, his fists digging into his back and Du’Met’s masked face against his skin so he could nibble on Charlie’s stubbled throat. It was quick, dirty and something else that Charlie would later blame on fear. When he spilled all over Du’Met’s hand he heard the older man chuckle to himself; if he thought Charlie pathetic or was just congratulating himself, the blond didn’t know or really care there and then. Finally the hand in his hair released and moved to his throat to force another kiss on him. This time Charlie didn’t refuse, just let it all happen. A kiss was a kiss and Charlie’s touch-starved body soaked up every second of it.
Slowly, so as not to alarm his victim, Du’Met’s other hand trailed up Charlie’s naked chest leaving a line of cum over the skin there. As soon as both hands were at the blond’s throat they started to tighten, steadily at first and then, when Charlie’s eyes widened and flooded with sweet, sweet terror, he squeezed with all his murderous desire.
Choking wasn’t like television shows made it look, it wasn’t a quick squeeze that made a person fall down dead. Choking took time, it took strength and determination; even after unconsciousness the pressure needed to persist until finally the Curator came. Charlie knew all this from his time working on The Architects of Murder episodes, but being on the receiving end of it truly was something else. At first Du’Met’s grasp hurt but that was it, then his heartbeat grew loud, drummed inside his ears and the pressure started; a growing horror like he was drowning. Blue eyes caught Du’Met’s dark ones and there was that twinkle of desire.
This was finally it, Charlie’s death had come. Decisions had been made and they’d guided Charlie to his death. Some roads lead to death and Charlie had wandered down one without a care in the world.
Unable to do a single thing to save himself, Charlie had no choice but to watch the darkness close in at the corner of his eyes, and then, finally everything went black and Charlie’s fate was sealed.
~X~
Pain. Pain was the all-consuming thing which woke Charlie. He coughed and choked, felt as though he were breathing through a wet paper straw, but soon the coughing fit subsided and, though agonizing, Charlie managed to fill his lungs more easily. Realization struck him then, he was still very much alive and, much more alarmingly, being carried. For a split second he let the fact the sun was coming up and the warmth his freezing body was pressed against give him hope this was some rescuer his crew had sent back for him. However, that hope departed when he tilted his eyes upward to find a blurry figure that could have only been Du’Met. Nobody had come to save him, he was still at the mercy of a serial killer; in fact, all that had changed was Charlie was now in said killer’s arms in a fucking princess hold. Charlie Lonnit; Englishman, director, overbearing narcissist, damsel.
His glasses were gone for some reason – ‘probably wants to ensure I can’t run’ – but Charlie was near-sighted so could still tell Du’Met had seen better days. The man’s hat was long gone, his mask now damaged and a large gash across his cheek, the biggest thing Charlie noticed though was that his captive was soaking wet to the point he’s soaked Charlie also.
That horrid, hated part of himself that had enjoyed Du’Met’s touches when he’d been tied to that damn fence started to mutter at the back of his mind again, it told him how well-built this murderer was, how strong his arms were and securely they held Charlie. The chilly night, open shirt and second-hand soaking had left Charlie extremely cold to the point he wanted to snuggle in to the warmth of this mad man. No! No, he’d not, it wasn’t right! No, Charlie wanted to struggle and fight, wanted to flee and find his crew very much alive. Yet he was exhausted and in withdrawal, stiff from so long tied to a chain link fence and escaping the furnace had left his large hands red and raw. It was that he couldn’t escape, not that Charlie liked being all wrapped up in powerful arms. Yes, that was right. Charlie’s body was just exhausted, not a traitor.
Du’Met paused then in his steps and stared down at Charlie reminiscent of how a parent would at a newborn; like he could see something nobody else could. He smiled, a genuine smile which actually reached his eyes, not one of those grins filled with homicidal glee, and for a moment it was as if he was pleased to see Charlie.
The blond didn’t know what to do so he just left his body limp and allowed himself to be carried. Was Charlie the last one alive? Had Du’Met killed his entire team and now wanted to take his time with Charlie since he was the final kill?
When the sinister murder castle’s main door came into view Charlie felt a shiver run down his spine. Every moment he’d spent inside that hotel he’d thought would be his last, then he’d managed to escape and a glimmer of freedom had emerged; odd then that being carried back into the lion’s den didn’t put the fear of God into him and maybe that was why he managed to find his voice.
“Are-” He coughed violently for a moment but the killer didn’t pause in his steps again. “Are they all dead?” Du’Met shook his head and Charlie didn’t know what amazed him more, that Du’Met had answered so readily or that his crew still drew breath. “So… they just abandoned me? All of them?” Again Du’Met nodded. “Those fucking bastards!”
Instantly his anger triggered another coughing fit. Surely his throat was swollen and undoubtedly bruises would soon appear; just another sign he’d survived to go with his burned hands. As his coughs forced him to convulse, Du’Met held Charlie closer, kept him secure in his arms as if he actually cared.
As breaths calmed once more, Charlie’s mind returned to abandonment. He’d always known he wasn’t the easiest person in the world to get along with, he also knew Jamie, Mark, Erin and Kate didn’t like him, but to actually leave him to die was just fucking low. They were all alive though, so he supposed that was something.
Too lost in his thoughts, Charlie didn’t really acknowledge when Du’Met carried him back into the hotel or to where he was being taken. Anger or relief, Charlie’s still oxygen-deprived brain couldn’t quite make a decision. Granthem Du’Met didn’t have that ambivalence though so he had no problems calmly making his way into his lair, the central spider web, which was actually so well lit that it hurt Charlie’s eyes and worsened the blurriness.
The director was carried around the mezzanine and through one of the many nondescript doorways where Charlie found himself abruptly dumped down on a double bed. Cloudy eyes peered around to reveal Charlie was in a bedroom far nicer than the one he’d checked in to. Well decorated but not ostentatious, not that any of that was even remotely important when a vicious murderer blocked the only exit.
With hardly a care in the world, Du’Met stepped to a large steamer trunk at the end of the bed and threw it open while Charlie eyed the open door. He could run, but he was back inside the hotel now with no one around for aid, he couldn’t see properly and his whole body was weak; he’d never make it out again. The blond silently cursed himself, he should have fought when they were outside. How stupid was he?! Then something was placed on his head and Charlie jolted back a little and whatever it was fell into his lap. His hat! His lucky hat! Blue eyes peered up at Du’Met with so many questions only to have his glasses shoved back onto his face and suddenly the world of defined lines was returned to him.
“… Thank you.”
Charlie hadn’t known what to say but it must have been right because the masked man inclined his head as if to say you’re welcome. Slowly, Du’Met brushed a single gloved finger over Charlie’s cheek like a caress, then he bent to kiss him again … and just like that he was out of Charlie’s personal space so he could close the trunk.
For a split second Charlie just stared at his lucky hat, he’d not expected to see it again, the dark blue cap with yellow visor was worn but cared for, and just holding it in his hands calmed Charlie. He returned it to its rightful place atop his head and rose to his feet on shaky legs as Du’Met headed for the door; the killer stopped to look at him and Charlie sat again.
“Yeah, sorry, don’t know what I was thinking.”
Knowing his silent warning had done its job, the former federal agent left the room and a magnetic lock clicked into place. Charlie took a calming breath as fearful blue eyes looked around the bedroom, it had to have been Du’Met’s room since there were no windows and it went right to the control centre; that meant he was sat on a serial killer’s bed.
He’d heard the door lock but that didn’t stop Charlie looking around inside the room. Yes, there was no denying it was Du’Met’s bedroom. Curiosity had him rushing to the trunk his captor had rummaged in only a few moments earlier, but instead of discovering something even remotely useful Charlie only found dozens upon dozens of the same outfit Du’Met had been wearing all night; his murder outfit.
“It’s his fucking costume box.”
By the locked door stood a coat stand from which hung one of those yellow groundskeeper coats, and for a moment bile rose up in his injured throat. When they’d seen the groundskeeper skewered he nor Jamie had known it was just an animatronic; he had to look away. There was a dresser topped with a mirror on the same wall as the locked door, a few basic things like a comb called it home but still nothing that could have been repurposed as a weapon. Yanking a drawer open further crushed Charlie’s hopes because there was little he could do to get away with a pairs of socks and underwear. Another drawer contained a couple of shirts and jeans, so no, there wasn’t anything useful to him in that whole room and Du’Met knew it. Looking at the clothing, Charlie supposed they were for times a H. H. Holmes costume would have caused too many questions.
He caught himself in the mirror then and was suddenly reminded of a stray dog. He was damp from being pressed against a dripping Du’Met, his shirt and blue waistcoat were soot-covered and trashed thanks to the knife’s sharp blade. He needed to shave; his facial hair leaned more toward actual beard rather than his usual stubble. Charlie looked like crap because he desperately needed a goddamn cigarette, but mostly it was the fact his pants still hung open. He’d liked Du’Met’s touch. What was actually wrong with him? No, he pushed those thoughts away; for now he was alive and he wanted to focus on that.
Seeing an opportunity for clean, dry clothes, Charlie tugged off his ruined shirt then simply let it drop at his feet and grabbed the first shirt he found; its dry comfort wouldn’t be something he took for granted ever again. The navy shirt was much too big since Du’Met wasn’t just taller but broader, but that was the least of Charlie’s concerns. Cold fingers fastened the buttons and instantly Charlie felt human again.
He was caged but for the first time since he’d arrived on the island he wasn’t surrounded by traps, and that small comfort got Charlie to sit back down on the bed to rest his tired limbs and assess his situation. If his crew truly were still alive and since Du’Met had been drenched, he was fairly confident they’d gotten off the island. Charlie sighed, maybe they’d send people to look for him, to rescue him. Yeah, they couldn’t have been so heartless as to leave him at the hands of Du’Met, all alone with no hope. They’d send police, detection dogs or maybe some damn marines to take down a deranged serial killer. That was what Charlie wanted to believe but he couldn’t quite convince himself. The girls and Mark had to have known Du’Met was still alive, had to have known he’d come straight for Charlie. Charlie sighed yet again. No, police probably thought they’d be searching for Charlie’s mutilated corpse amongst a plethora of other dead bodies or whatever animatronic he’d been fashioned into.